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Craft of Writing

Mridu Khullar

Shoot from the Heart, Aim for the Soul

When friends of fifteen years disappointed me, I wrote about it. When my grandmother fell ill and died before my very eyes, I wrote about it. When I failed college, quit my job or got into what my friends and family called an insecure career, I wrote about it. And when all my everyday stories had been exhausted, I dug into my past. And I wrote about the first boy who broke my heart.

No sugar-coating, no protecting the guilty, no pretending I wasn’t shallow. Just what I felt at the time—going back into my pre-teen mind and writing like a 12-year-old would. Not intended for publication, but rather in response to a silly writing prompt, the essay meant nothing more than a journal entry. So when Chicken Soup for the Soul sent out a call for submissions for their pre-teen anthology, it never once occurred to me to send this essay.

But as the last day of the submission deadline arrived and I still hadn’t written anything worth submitting, my to-do list brought on a guilt so powerful, I was left with no choice. Oh what the heck, I thought. I’ll send this.

The CS editors so far, had rejected my prize-winning essays and colorful slices of life that would put William Wordsworth to shame. It was quite unlikely they were going to publish this juvenile drivel. All the same, the deadline was today, and I was going to send something out, even if it were just for the sake of taking it off my to-do list. I ran a quick spell-check, copy-pasted the submission into my e-mail, sent it off and promptly forgot about it, getting to work on my next essay. The one that had a chance of getting published.

Life went on. I submitted. I got rejected. I got accepted. I got published. Bylines and disappointments came at a steady pace, and while I quickly became the how-to gal, I didn’t have as much luck placing my essays. I continued to polish my prose and learn bigger, more delicious-sounding words.

And then one October morning, I received the e-mail that would forever change the way I viewed my writing. “Chicken Soup interested in your story.”

At first, I assumed it was one of my look-good essays that had made it through. I was quite surprised to find that it was, in fact, the ugly step-sister who was getting the accolades. I wasn’t sure whether to be ecstatic that I might be in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book—one of my lifetime dreams—or freaked out that an essay written for my eyes only was about to go public.

Contracts went back and forth, and at each stage of the selection process, I waited for the rejection letter to come. It never did. My ugly little story continued to clear all the rounds of selection and by mid-2004, it was final. I was going to be a Chicken Soup for the Soul writer.

While I was overjoyed, it felt like an empty victory. For months, I continued to wonder why my beautifully-worded stories failed to hit the target, but one that I hadn’t even put much thought into made it in so easily. Was it all just a fluke? Did I really deserve to be published alongside all these talented writers?

The answer came to me several months later, when I chanced upon an essay by a woman who described her trauma of childhood sex abuse. There was nothing artistic, stylish or remotely elegant about the essay. But as I sat there reading word after word, I had goose bumps. I stared at the computer screen with tears streaming down my face and I found something I hadn’t found in years. Understanding. The assurance that someone else had gone through what I had, and come out of it all right. The knowledge that someone else felt the same way I did, even if she lived thousands of miles away in a world far removed from my own.

And then I understood it. My beautiful essays weren’t getting accepted because they were just that—beautiful—with not much else. The essay that the Chicken Soup for the Soul editors loved wasn’t pretty, but it spoke of one of the most basic and identifiable truths of every girl’s life—a broken heart and a bruised ego.

Writing, I learnt then, is not about dazzling prose and flowery descriptions. It’s about opening yourself up to your readers and touching a nerve. It’s about making them laugh, cry and learn through your experiences, right along with you.

That is what makes a story worth reading. And that’s the kind of writer I want to be.

About the Author
Freelance writer Mridu Khullar, 24, loves to travel to new and interesting places, meet fascinating people and hear their stories, and in the process, find some of her own.
 
During the past three years, she's written hundreds of articles for almost 70 publications in countries across the globe, including the United States, Canada, England, Australia, India and Bahrain. Her most recent credits include articles and essays in publications such as ELLE, Yahoo.com, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Writer's Digest, Women's Health & Fitness and The Times of India. She lives and works out of New Delhi and has the mandatory writer's coffee addiction and temperamental muse. Visit her online home at www.MriduKhullar.com.